Regret
by L'autore Passionale
Summary: It had been years since Dick had been kidnapped for a ransom. The problem, besides being inconvenient, was that Bruce wasn't going to pay. Not after their argument. Despite Dick warning them, the kidnappers didn't believe Bruce would leave his child in danger. With each phone call that Bruce didn't answer, however, they grew more and more angry, and Dick was left to pay the price.


AN: This is set in a 'verse where Dick goes into the police force around 20 or 21 years old. For this, Jason is 19, Tim is 17, and Damian 11.

I get into these slumps where I will write, write, write, and edit, edit, edit, and never share anything. But I've fallen in love with these characters, and it's whumptober! What better time to dip my toes into a new community and actually share something? This story has been written for a while, but prompt #27 (Ransom) gave me an excuse to post it.

* * *

It had been awhile, Dick thought as the crowbar smashed into his leg again, that he had dealt with a kidnapping as his civilian self. Years, maybe, since he'd been taken as Dick and not Nightwing. The crowbar crashed into his leg once more, snapping it with a sick _crack. _He screamed through clenched teeth, his eyes screwed up at the pain.

_"Is this important?"_

_Dick's eyebrows shot up at the gruff tone, surprised even though he had expected it. He and Bruce had had a knock-down, drag-out verbal fight before Dick had left the manor, after all. (Before his father had said to get out and not return. Before he'd said…. But he didn't mean it. He couldn't have. Right?) But it had been a couple of months, and Dick thought perhaps things had cooled off enough to approach the man. (He missed him. So much it hurt.)_

_"Not as far as saving the world goes, but kinda important to me," he finally said._

_"I'm in the middle of a meeting, Dick. What is it?" _

_Dick gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. Calling had been a mistake. Bruce wasn't ready yet to hear from him, and Dick found himself wondering if he was ready to bury the hatchet, either. Exhaling slowly, he answered, "I arrested my first perp today."_

_The other man grunted. "Use your gun to get him to comply?"_

_His black eye throbbed, a reminder of the perp's elbow jamming into him. Reluctant to draw his weapon when the man had pulled a knife and threatened the nearby officers, Dick had tackled the man instead. His supervisor had reemed him out, claiming he could have been seriously injured, but the part of Dick that was Nightwing had merely shaken off the criticism. He'd handled thugs with more weapons than a mere knife for years. Since he was nine years old. _

_"No, Bruce," he sighed. "I just...I thought you'd like to know I got a murderer off the street today. Legally."_

_There was silence, but for both men's breathing. Before this mess, he would have thought Bruce might have been a little proud of his work. Now, however, he was left adrift, wondering what his mentor was thinking. _

_"Okay." _

_Dick pulled the phone away from his ear and blinked at the screen that showed the call had ended. Well. Okay then. _

He was pretty sure it was worse this time. Worse than any other time he'd been taken as Bruce Wayne's ward/son. At least with those other times, he'd known Bruce would pay the ransom.

He wasn't going to pay it this time. Dick had warned the kidnappers, but they hadn't listened, and now they'd wasted their time. And of course, they weren't _happy _about that.

"We'll keep hurting him until you respond, Mr. Wayne," said the man Dick had christened with the very clever nickname of _Goon #1. _

Dick had to give it to him and his band of merry morons, they were very tenacious and focused on their objective. They'd sent an email detailing their demands and given a window of time for Bruce to gather the money. Except, when they had called him, using Dick's phone (those sons-of-biscuits), and expected to pass on the location where Bruce could drop off the ransom money, Bruce didn't answer.

_He tried calling again two weeks later. _

_"What? Damian! Do not take a knife to your brother again!" _

_Dick's lips twitched. God, he missed his brothers. He hadn't seen them much since he and Bruce had argued. There was a crash and muffled swearing. _

_"Dick, what?" _

_The smile fell from his face, Dick feeling oddly stung. "I…" he stalled, biting his bottom lip. Gathering his courage, he started again. "I wanted to see how everyone was doing." _

_"Everyone's fine," Bruce bit off, and Dick could hear him growl as another crash sounded. "I have to go." He hung up, leaving Dick's ears ringing with his barked orders for Damian and Tim to stop fighting. _

_Turning the phone over in his hands, he wondered if that conversation counted as a success or not. Bruce had only hung up because the boys were arguing, not because of their fight. _

Bruce _didn't answer, _and so the kidnappers left a message warning him they'd take out their frustration on Dick until he did. So they called, every hour. And five hours later, when Bruce still hadn't answered, Dick stared at the knives in their hands and accepted he'd be in that dank, dirty warehouse until he died. They'd taken him on his weekend off work, after all, and no one was going to miss him. Not until it was too late.

_His next three phone calls to Bruce went unanswered. Figuring that he was busy with a mission, Dick tried not to feel hurt. He continued to work, pouring his blood and sweat into a city dark with crime. _

_A news briefing that he caught sight of at work one day highlighted a breach in security at Wayne Enterprises and showed Bruce was in town, so he wasn't...on a mission. Just too busy to talk to him. Well, Dick was busy, too. Very busy. And he was an adult. He didn't need to talk to Bruce every time something good or bad happened or when he missed the man and the rest of his family. Tim had sent him an email three days before, and Damian had sent him a scathing text full of insults for Jason and Tim and minor insults to Dick himself, so he was fine. Everything was fine. Everyone was fine. _

Dick was beginning to think he may have underestimated the goons. Not their intelligence, but their creativity in tying knots (because he could not get free from the rope and tape that held him captive) and causing pain. He'd underestimated their enthusiasm for it, too. Dick had, after all, been tortured by the best: Joker and Two-Face and all of the other villains that made Gotham their home. He'd known pain, before. He had not assumed these nameless thugs would be any good at this, but his kidnappers were more than holding their own.

The knife in his thigh had been there for hours, Goon #3 (Dick's least favorite) twisting it every once in awhile just because he could. The one in his shoulder wobbled every time he breathed. Everything _hurt._

"Mr. Wayne, our patience draws thin and your mailbox is getting full. When it runs out of space?"

Goon #3 twisted the knife and Dick tried not to, he really did, but he couldn't stop the moan dragged from him at the action.

"We will drop his bloody body on your doorstep. Don't say you weren't warned."

_On Dick's birthday, he received a phone call from Tim, a used birthday card from Jason that had the original recipient's name crossed out, and a half hour long facetime call with Damian, who tut'd somewhere close to fifteen times. _

_He never heard from Bruce. _

"Come now, Mr. Grayson. Time to wake up. It's time to talk to your father again."

There was no way to stop the whine that crawled up his throat as he regained consciousness. Everything...everything hurt. Blood dripped from his fingers, where Goon #2 had joined in the festivities and pulled his fingernails out.

"Would you like to say something to your father?" The phone hovered in front of his face, the screen wavering in and out of focus.

Bruce? Had he finally answered?

"Br...Bruuuuce?" His breath stuttered as he waited to hear his father...to hear Bruce answer. His face crumpled when there was no response.

"It's a message, Grayson. Again. Your father didn't care enough to answer. And I don't think you're going to last much longer." The goon tilted Dick's chin up. "You've given up, haven't you?"

Dick tried to pull his head away, a protest dying on his lips when the goon continued. "Don't deny it. I can see it. You didn't really believe he wouldn't pay at the beginning, did you? But you believe it now."

"S...stop."

"It must crush you, knowing you're nothing to him. Otherwise, he would have paid, wouldn't he? You must hate him for putting you through this."

"No. _No. _Bruce…."

"So you _don't _blame him?"

"Bruuu…."

Goon #2 leaned forward to press on his ribs, and Dick gasped.

"Do you want to say something to him?" Goon #1 snapped his fingers in Dick's face. "Grayson. Do you want to say something?"

Did he want to say goodbye? His kidnapper was right. He wasn't going to last much longer. They'd nearly punctured his lung during the last beating, and he felt dizzy from the shallow breaths he was left taking from the injury. Press on it again like #2 just had, and Dick may only have minutes.

"'M sorry, Bru-Bruce. I know you d-don't, and I know I s-I _said _I don't, but I love...you. Sorry I dis-disappointed y...you…. 'M sorry…I nev-never..." _lived up to what you wanted me to be; was enough. _"'M sorry…."

He slammed his eyes shut, jammed his teeth together. A sob built in his throat, and he swallowed it down, nearly choking with it. He wasn't going to make it out of this. This was the end of the line for him. The kidnappers wouldn't let him go, and Bruce wasn't going to pay.

It was different, worse almost, facing imminent death as Dick instead of Nightwing.

_Dick winced as he tried to button his shirt, the EMTs clearing him to head home. The bullets had been stopped by his kevlar vest after all; there was no need to send him to the hospital. Besides, this was hardly the first time he'd been shot before. Except it was the first time he'd been shot as Dick Grayson. He'd handled knives and fists during his times kidnapped for Bruce's money, dealt with guns being pointed in his direction, but not being shot. _

_It was kind of stupid it was bothering him so much. The bullets hadn't even pierced flesh, though they had left behind some very colorful bruises. _

_One of his colleagues dropped him off at his apartment, and Dick sat on his couch for an hour before he finally dialed Bruce's number. _

_"Dick, I don't have time for this!" _

_He hung his head. "Yeah. Okay." He hung up the phone and tossed it on the other end of the couch. Tears, stupid and useless, filled his vision, and he dug the heel of his hands into his eyes. He was tired, and he was hurt, and he was…. He felt so alone. _

_Dick's life had blended together in time spent at the station during the day and watching the streets at night. He felt stretched thin as his patrols as Officer Grayson went beyond normal business hours. Oftentimes, he was working a case late into the night and starting early the next day. It made patrolling as Nightwing difficult, leaving him with little time to actually __patrol as Nightwing._

_Something was broken between Bruce and Dick, and for all his efforts to remain in contact with the man, there was little (nothing) to show the situation had gotten any better in the last several months. _

_Right hand cupping the bruises over his ribs, he stood slowly, trying not to jostle his shoulder, either. He'd lost any appetite he might have had after the shooting, so he bypassed his kitchen, pushing his bedroom door open and settling on the edge of his bed. Slowly, he laid on his back and looked up at the shadows on his ceiling. _

_He didn't fall asleep until the early hours of the morning. _

"What do you want to do, boss?"

Goon #1 was silent for a long moment. Dick ignored him, focused more on the agony that consumed him, mentally and physically.

"We wait. One more hour. If we don't hear anything then, we'll say goodbye to Grayson here."

"The others are mad," Goon #2 said sotto voce.

"I'll let them have one more turn with Grayson before they dump the body. It'll take a little of the edge off. Otherwise, we're only out a couple of days."

"And all that planning!" Goon #2 shot back.

Color was leaching out of Dick's vision, and he thought it was a good idea to let go for a little while. He had no way to escape. The only things he had left to look forward to were another torture session and a brutal death. Blessed oblivion would be a good way to pass the hour he had left.

Perhaps if he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up when they had their last go at him.

_Dick was promoted, eight months into his time on the force. The youngest to move up the ranks so quickly in the last twenty years. He didn't bother calling Bruce to let him know. _

He awoke to curses and screams, to the sound of flesh hitting flesh, of yelled threats and growled promises. He peeled his eyes open slowly, blinking at the sight that greeted him. Red Robin, Robin, and Red Hood.

Red Robin and Red Hood were taking care of the last two guards while Damian rushed to him.

"Richard!" he yelled, hands outstretched as he ran to Dick's side.

Dick swept his gaze across the scene, his vision blurring as it darkened again. His brothers had come for him.

Bruce had not.

_Dick shook his head slowly. Anger and frustration and hurt roiled in a dangerous combination that made him want to hurt back, to push back. "I hate you." _

_He didn't. He couldn't hate Bruce. But the words still came out of his mouth, even if they tattled on the exhaustion and pain he was trying to bottle up._

_"You're betraying everything I've ever taught you," Bruce spit out. "I should never have taken you in." _

_Dick stumbled back a step, shock widening his eyes. _

_"Get out, and don't come back."_

_Anger rushed through him, giving him the energy he needed to leave without showing how much the man's words wounded him. Perhaps, if he hadn't been so angry, he might have paid attention to the way Bruce's ears pinked in shame, or the way his eyes screamed his own shock and regret, saying more than he ever would with words. But Dick was angry, and those signs didn't matter. _

_"My pleasure," he snarled as he passed the man._

_…_

When Bruce returned from his mission, he was exhausted and sore. It had been a difficult few months, and he wanted nothing more than to make sure all four of his boys were safe and then fall into bed for the next week at least. What he got instead were three of his children lined up and waiting for him, with varying degrees of anger and worry on their faces.

Not a good sign.

"What." He made the question an order, and Jason was only too willing to step forward.

"You absolute butt-wipe with crap for brains. Did you even _think _before you said that to him?"

Bruce blinked, the only sign of confusion he allowed himself. "You'll have to be more specific."

_"'I should never have taken you in,'" _Jason answered.

Bruce's chin lifted in recognition of the words. Words he had uttered, that had so wounded his child and shamed Bruce, that haunted his nightmares while the gulf between them widened.

"How…." He trailed off, leveling a look at Damian, the only other person in the house besides Alfred on that fateful day. For all that the older man had been livid at Bruce, Bruce knew he would not have told the others what had been spoken. Not word for word, at least.

Damian didn't shy away from the look, matching it with a fierce glare of his own.

"He was kidnapped while you were gone." Tim this time, and Bruce took a step forward.

"Where is he? Was he injured?" _His son, his boy, his partner... _

"He's sleeping right now, and you're not going to wake him up. They tried to get a ransom from you, but with you gone..." Tim trailed off, and Bruce closed his eyes.

"How bad?"

"Not good," Tim answered.

Jason tsked and curled his hands into fists. "Worse, I would think, was him believing you weren't going to follow the kidnapper's demands." He said it lightly, and Bruce felt himself sway.

Had it gotten so bad between them? That Dick would doubt him so?

_"I should never have taken you in," _Bruce had said.

Inexcusable. Children railed against their parents every day, claimed their hatred when they were angry and frustrated. It was a parent's responsibility to never take their own anger and frustration out on their children. Yet Bruce had let his temper, so easily riled when it came to the safety and well-being of his children, decide his words, aiming to hurt as much as he had when Dick had whispered his own anger-fueled words. _"I hate you."_

"The video is on the console," Tim said. "We don't know where your phone is, but they apparently tried to get a hold of you on that, too."

"It's been dead for the last two months," he said quietly, pulling it out of his bag.

His children parted for him to walk to the console, silent as he plugged it in to charge and turned his attention to the screen. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he started the video.

Horrified silence met the end of the ransom demand. Dick's words ("You took the wrong son. He won't pay. Not anymore,") spoken as though fact, rang in his ears. Bruce set his jaw and picked up his phone, the one he kept for his family only. It flashed 13 missed calls, and he set his phone on speaker as he pressed play.

_…_

_"'M sorry, Bru-Bruce. I know you d-don't, and I know I s-I said I don't, but I love...you. Sorry I dis-disappointed y...you…. 'M sorry…I nev-never…. 'M sorry." _

Bruce was a stubborn man. Stubborn and, despite what others would say, very emotional. He may not show it all the time, but that didn't mean he wasn't. Some (most) of his downfall came from his difficulty in expressing and handling that emotion. When he and Dick had argued all those months ago about his job choice, he'd been so worried for his son. Bludhaven's police force was notoriously crooked. Dick would have no backup in the field, Bruce knew.

Dick was inherently good. Pure. The BPD would destroy him-either take him out of the picture or tarnish the soul Bruce had fought so hard to protect.

Of course, what their fight focused on, instead of the job, was the gun his son would be wearing while he worked. It was a weapon that went against all of the rules he'd drilled into each of his sons. It was easy for a fight to turn fatal when a gun was involved, and that was not an outcome he wanted his children to be responsible for.

_His parents were killed with a gun. He would not let his sons be compared even the slightest to a murderer like that. Jason, don't you see? Dick, __don't you see?_

A police officer. Worried or not, Bruce was so proud of his son. He wanted to work in one of the worst cities to clean it up. He wanted _justice _and not revenge. But they'd been arguing, about stupid stuff, and then Bruce's worry got the better of him. Did he tell Dick that? No. He focused on the _gun_.

Stubborn pride and shame made his phone calls with Dick awkward. There had been more than a few times when Dick had called and he hadn't answered. He had stared at the phone, flashing with his son's name, and hesitated one ring too long, until the phone went to the answering machine.

Dick didn't leave a message. He never did.

And when Bruce did answer? It was when he was right in the middle of meetings or fights with his sons, or it was when he was preparing for missions off world and he was tense and worried about them and the son he hadn't seen with his own eyes for _months_.

He saw him now. Saw his son, bruised and battered, burned and cut, stabbed and tortured and broken. The son who had not thought his father was coming for him. The son whose spirit had been (_not broken, please not broken_) bent. Bruce's light. His joy. His _son. _There was not an inch of _his son _that was not bruised or injured right now, not that Bruce could see.

He buried his face in his hands, not caring if his other sons saw him so distraught. Let them see. He'd do the same at any of their bedsides. Had done the same at each of their bedsides. Emotional distance was not something easily achieved when it was one of _his _who was hurt. Funneling his worry and fear and anger into catching the people who had done harm to his children could only get him so far. There was a point where thought was impossible. The only thing that would go through his head then was a litany of _my son; please don't take him away. Please. My son, my son, my son…. _

Dick's pain and torment played on a loop in his head; his words-garbled and slurred as he asked for forgiveness and told Bruce he loved him-would not stop repeating either.

His other sons sat in chairs surrounding Dick's bed, none of them near Bruce. He felt the separation keenly, pain lancing his heart, even as he understood. He couldn't blame them. They talked sporadically, quietly, respectful of Dick's condition.

Bruce pulled his chair closer to his son's side and leaned towards Dick's head, angling his mouth close to his ear.

"Do you know when I first realized I love you? That you are _my _son, not only my ward?" Dick didn't answer, still unconscious. Bruce continued anyways, ignoring the way his other children quieted completely and listened. "You had been in the manor for a year, at that point. We'd just come back from going bowling, which, really, Dick? 'It's right up my alley'? I'll never forget the grin on your face when you made that joke; you were so proud.

But we'd gotten back, and Alfred had made cookies while we were gone. You pounced on them, as soon as you saw them, and I…." He broke off with a chuckle, remembering. "You had chocolate, all over your mouth. And when I pointed it out, and the napkin Alfred was handing you, you proceeded to try and lick it off."

Dick's giggles as Bruce had swept forward to clean him up had been beautiful. Each time he showed mirth, Dick lit up the world with his grin and his laugh. The moment had been so simple, mundane. And yet it had been enough to show him what he had not realized the depths of-how much he loved that child.

"I thought, how lucky am I? To have you as a son. To have the opportunity to love you. Protect you. My heart…." He trailed off, words unable to pass the lump in his throat. It was hard to describe how he'd felt. How he still felt. To tell him or any of his sons how much he loved them. He'd step in front of a bullet for them, gladly exchange his life to keep them safe, happily take their pain.

The other boys were staring at him, Tim's mouth dropped in shock. It had been a long time since he'd spoken so freely. Perhaps he needed to fix that.

"The first time you got hurt," he continued, "I almost had a heart attack. I could not stand the thought of you in pain, could not stand the possibility that you might one day be injured so badly as to...to leave me."

He'd told Dick's unconscious form that night that he could not imagine a world without Dick in it. Now, he could not imagine one without Dick or the rest of his children. His world revolved around them, whether he verbally acknowledged it or not.

For this night, with Jason, Tim, and Damian listening, Bruce continued to talk. To tell Dick some of his favorite memories, though he was quick to admit any moment he spent with his children, good or bad, was his favorite. He talked until Damian, and then Tim, finally nodded off. He talked until Jason quietly broke in, interrupting a story about the time Dick and Tim had tried to prank Bruce. He hadn't seen it coming, which had tickled the boys to no end.

"You have to tell him this, too. He doesn't...he's not awake. He can't hear you. You can't just...let this go anymore. You _heard _him. He believed you wouldn't come, that you don't love him anymore."

Bruce looked up from Dick's lax face to see Jason bunching his jaw and staring at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap.

"If anyone knows how...how much that affects you," his son continued, "it's me."

Bruce stood quickly and crossed the room to kneel in front of Jason. His hands framed his son's face as he drew his forehead closer to rest against his. "I never stopped loving you, son," he whispered, and Jason studied him for a long moment, his eyes glossy. Finally, he nodded and pulled back.

"I know that. I know that now. But you...you can throw words like daggers, and they cut deeper than any knife I've ever been under. Your disappointment alone…." He let the words trail off, and Bruce closed his eyes for a long moment.

It wouldn't hurt them if they didn't respect him or his opinion so much, Bruce knew that. On a good day, their regard for him warmed his heart. Tonight, however, it only highlighted how much he had failed, for Bruce was quick to point out mistakes and disappointment, while praise was not so easily handed out.

"He needs to hear it," Jason pointed out. "He needs to hear you say the words that you're...you don't want him to stay gone. That you're _sorry _you told him what you did about taking him in. Sweeping it under the rug is only going to make it worse."

Bruce gave him a faint smile. "When did you get to be so wise?"

Jason's cheeks flushed, and Bruce drew him down again to press his lips to his forehead. "Get some rest," he said as he pushed to his feet. "I'll take watch."

He moved back to his chair and resumed his monologue to his oldest. He didn't say the words yet, because Dick wasn't awake, but underlying his memories and thoughts on his son, Bruce hoped he heard the love and care and worry and _pride_. Even if he was still unconscious.

…

Dick came to slowly. He felt hazy, in a way only painkillers, a _lot _of painkillers, could leave him. His body felt heavy, like it hadn't moved for a while, and he cast his mind back, trying to remember what had happened. He had the vague notion there had been a deep voice, warm and kind, speaking to him while he was asleep. Try as he might, though, he couldn't remember whatever had been said.

He shifted and stifled a gasp. _Oh_. That had not been a wise move. Agony that had been muted flared throughout his body, and he held still, breathing through it.

_"We'll keep hurting him until you respond, Mr. Wayne." _

The echo of the words made him flinch as memories rushed back. He'd been kidnapped and held for ransom. Ransom that wasn't going to be paid because his father…because _Bruce _was finished with him. His brothers had rescued him.

Opening his eyes slowly to adjust to the dim light, it took him only a second to realize he was in the Batcave. Which was...not good. His fath-_ Bruce, Bruce _had told him to never come back. He needed to go. He had to leave before Bruce found out Dick was there. He closed his eyes and took a careful breath to fortify himself. Something told him he wasn't going to like moving, that the agony he'd felt moments before was only the tip of the iceberg.

Oh well. Nothing for it but to brace for it. He opened his eyes again and slowly, _slowly, _pushed himself upright. His hands screamed at him, and he looked down to see fingers twisted and broken, taped together, while the tips of his fingers were bandaged. Right. They'd...they'd pulled his nails out. He remembered that now. Somewhere after call number four when Bruce hadn't answered.

_Do you hate me so much, _he'd wondered at the time, _to leave me to this?_

His breath was coming in harsh pants as the memories flooded back, and he flinched hard when someone spoke near him.

"Done trying to be stupid?"

He turned his head to see Jason leaning in the doorway. "I can't..." he croaked, and Jason rolled his eyes and walked to Dick's side. Picking up the cup of water from the table, he held the straw to his lips. Water, cool and refreshing, soothed his aching throat.

"Lay back down, moron. You're hurt, in case you couldn't tell."

"Have to go," Dick gasped as he tried to push up again. "Help me?"

Jason's face darkened. "Hell no. You're not going anywhere."

"I have to," he tried to insist, but Jason shook his head.

"Do you want to break open your stitches? Stay, Dickhead." For all his voice was stern, his grip on Dick's shoulder as he pushed him back down was gentle.

"You don't...understand," he tried, but Jason snorted.

"Oh, I understand better than you realize." He held the cup for Dick to take another sip.

"Jay, who're you talking-Dick! You're awake!" Tim surged forward into the room, a bright smile on his face. Damian was right behind him, his eyes wide as he stared at him.

Dick breathed a sigh, feeling his world tilt a little closer to upright at having each of his brothers nearby. It didn't quite soothe the urgency that wouldn't leave him alone, though. He had to _go. "Get out and don't come back."_

"Boys, is he-?"

Dick stiffened, his eyes swinging back to the doorway where Bruce stood. The older man gaped, an unusual expression for him, and Dick clenched his jaw.

"Don't worry," he ground out. "I'm leaving." He heard Tim swear under his breath, but focused on Jason. "Jay, you've gotta..._please."_

"Boys, I need to speak with your brother. Give us some time."

Dick's stare turned pleading, betrayal filling him when Tim, and then Jason, turned and left. Damian rested his hand on Dick's foot for a moment, warning on his face when he looked at Bruce, before he, too, left the room.

Bruce settled in the chair beside Dick's bed. All the while, he studied Dick, leaving him feeling very uncomfortable. He did not like being on his back right now, not with Bruce nearby. The other man wouldn't attack him physically, but Dick already knew how much damage he could cause with only his words.

"It wasn't my choice," Dick said, when the silence had stretched too long for his jittery nerves to handle. "To come here. They...brought me here when I passed out."

"I owe you an apology."

Dick choked, which just brought a whole new world of pain to his life as he coughed and sputtered, his throat screaming at him for further abusing it, his ribs sharply rebuking him.

"Easy, son. Easy."

There was a gentle hand on his back and soothing words in his ear. The voice was as warm as the one he remembered from when he was sleeping. He blinked and stared at the straw Bruce held by his mouth, clenching his jaw for a long moment before he drank again.

He hated feeling weak. He hated feeling useless.

"You wanna run that...by me again?" he whispered, swinging his eyes back to Bruce as he sat in the chair again.

The smile Bruce gave him was tired, sad. "You heard me, but I'll repeat myself. I'm sorry, son."

"Son," Dick said quietly, then his hoarse voice grew loud as anger filled him. "You told me to get out and never come back! You...you _said, _you should never have taken me in! You-!" He cut off the words, too upset to continue to speak, and wrapped an arm around his stomach.

"I should never have said those things. They were inexcusable. I was angry, and I was worried; we were fighting, and I…." Bruce shook his head. "Saying those things to you-I cannot tell you how much I regret doing so."

"Oh, I can tell by how quickly you got back to the kidnappers," Dick spit out.

"No, wait, let me explain," Bruce said, which was more of a plea than he'd heard in _years _from the man, but the words came quickly to Dick, spoken without him thinking twice.

"I think they called you around 15 times, Bruce. Did you start wondering if maybe you still liked me when they _stopped calling? _Say what you want, but your actions speak louder than words! For two days, they had me! Was I not worth the money they asked for?

No, I already know that," he scoffed, waving a hand at the man he still considered his father. "You haven't…. For months, I was trying, and you didn't-_don't- _ care. I was _shot, _and you didn't even want to hear from me! It would have been nice, though, if you'd answered at least one...of the phone calls to tell my kidnappers you weren't interested in me anymore. Maybe they would have gone right to killing me. Would have saved me..._ some _pain."

There was a muffled noise in the hall outside the door, a harsh gasp that was followed by another voice whispering quietly. _"Easy, Dami. Easy."_

Dick swore softly, collapsing back against the pillows. Damian took the idea of any of their deaths about as well as Dick did-like a knife to the heart. He didn't usually show it so plainly, but Dick was more of a mess than Damian had seen in quite some time. He wasn't surprised the other boy's mask wasn't back in place yet.

Bruce, already pale before, blanched completely. "You were shot? When? Where?" He stood, his hands hovering uselessly over Dick's body.

"Twice," he grit out. "But don't _worry_. I was wearing my vest."

_"Where?" _Bruce repeated, and Dick huffed, gesturing to where the bullets had struck: his ribs and over his heart.

Bruce fell back on the chair heavily. "You could have…."

"Yes. I could have died. And I called you...when I got home that night. Kn-know what you said? _'I don't have time for this.'"_

"I didn't know," Bruce whispered.

The admission pained Dick even more than he thought it would. "Couldn't be bothered to even...check up on me while I was gone? You have the resources. But that's right. You told me you should...never have taken me in. Why would you _care? _"

Bitter anger and pain filled his raspy voice and tears were in his eyes because damn it, he loved Bruce. His friend, partner, father/brother. He turned his face away from the cup Bruce held out to him. He didn't want his help.

He startled when a careful hand settled on the back of his neck and squeezed. "I _was _watching out for you," Bruce refuted softly. "I kept an eye on every move Nightwing made, I promise you. I know I messed up." The admission drew Dick's attention back to the man, who slowly moved his other hand to wipe away the tears that fell down Dick's face.

"I was angry, and I said some things that were absolutely reprehensible. I didn't mean them. I will forever regret the way we were introduced, but I will _never _regret having you in my life, having you as a son. I will _never _stop loving you."

The words were spoken slowly, as Bruce weighed each one. For a man who was often uncomfortable expressing emotion, that made what he said even more surreal and heartfelt.

"You've saved my life so many times since then, just by being you, just by being here. I was ashamed I said all of that to you." He sat back in the chair and rubbed his hands across his face. "So every time you called, all I could remember was what an…." He trailed off, mouth pursing as he thought.

"Idiot?"

"Ass?"

"Imbecile you were being, Father?"

The three suggestions came from the hallway as Bruce hesitated, and Dick snorted at the look on his father's face.

"Pick one, any one," Bruce said dryly. "I was all three. I didn't answer sometimes, because I couldn't get past my mistake. Couldn't get past what we both had said."

Dick's ears warmed, because he had not been innocent in their fight, either.

"I didn't answer when the kidnappers called because I wasn't here. My phone has been dead for the last two months, so even when I could check it, I had no way to charge it."

"You were off world," Dick breathed, hope blooming in his chest.

"Yes."

The sob came unbidden, harsh and painful. He curled over the hand he pressed to his chest. He had been so afraid Bruce hadn't answered because Dick had screwed up, because Bruce was done with him, because he didn't want him anymore.

_"I never should have taken you in."_

The words had been on a constant loop in his head, echoing in time with each punch, with each strike, cut, and burn he'd suffered from the kidnappers.

"I thought," he tried to say, looking up at Bruce, who looked _wrecked. _

"I know what you thought. And I will never forgive myself for making you feel that way, for leading you to believe I don't want you in my life. As if Batman could exist without his partner, as if Bruce could exist without his light." He tried to smile, the edges shaky, and Dick sobbed again, latching onto Bruce's shirt when the man leaned forward to wrap his arms around him.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into the man's chest. "I'm sorry. I don't hate you. I never have." He babbled his apologies until Bruce's whispered comfort calmed him.

"I know," he said. "You don't have anything to apologize for. Shh, chum. You're okay. I'm the one who's to blame."

Dick felt the press of a kiss against his hair.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to save you. I would have paid in a heartbeat."

"Thank you," Dick whispered. "Thank you."

"No," Bruce shook his head. "You don't have to thank me, Dick. Not for that. You are my _son. _I will do everything I can to keep you safe. Even if we were in the midst of the worst argument we've ever had, even if we haven't talked in years. You will _always _be my son. Always."

Wrapping the words around his battered heart, Dick felt more whole than he had in months. He relaxed into the arms that curled around him, the embrace from a father he had been so _afraid _he had lost. Bruce continued to hold him, even when the tears slowed and finally stopped. Dick's eyes slid closed without his permission, and he pried them open, not wanting to pass on this moment.

"It's okay. Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?" Dick breathed, eyes closed again and more than halfway to sleep.

"Promise," his father said.


End file.
